The fourteen years are fourteen months; we are Paul and the devil is Barnabas, Titus is-- Then a sudden loathing comes to us: we are liars and hypocrites, we are trying to deceive ourselves.

What is Paul to us--and Jerusalem?
We are Barnabas and Titus?
We know not the men.

Before we know we seize the book, swing it round our head, and fling it with all our might to the further end of the room.

We put down our head again and weep.
Youth and ignorance; is there anything else that can weep so?
It is as though the tears were drops of blood congealed beneath the eyelids; nothing else is like those tears.

After a long time we are weak with crying, and lie silent, and by chance we knock against the wood that stops the broken pane.